


Hrafnsmerki;Longboat of Ragnar Lodbrok - Nov 865

by J_Flattermann



Series: Tormented Souls [3]
Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: Historical Inaccuracy, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-26
Updated: 2014-01-26
Packaged: 2018-01-10 03:13:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1154093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/J_Flattermann/pseuds/J_Flattermann
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The Vikings invade North-East England.</p>
          </blockquote>





	1. Northumbria Anno 865 AD

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Vikings invade North-East England.

  
  


**Tormented Souls [Chapter 3] - “Hrafnsmerki”1** **Longboat of Ragnar Lodbrok - Nov 865 (Part 1)**

  
Pairing: Sean Bean as Mark Behan/Viggo Mortensen as Viggo Mårtenssona  
Genre: Slash  
Rating: NC-17 for violence  
Word Count: 1,066  
Disclaimer: Pure Fiction.  
A/N: Some of the details referred to in this story are taken from the [Ragnarssona þáttr](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ragnarssona_%C3%BE%C3%A1ttr). However the author does not guarantee the authenticity of the historic facts.  
  
  
  
  
 _Northumbria Anno 865 AD_  
In a small hamlet by the coast.  
  
An angry wind had rattled the walls of the houses and fences of the homestead. Had pulled at the thatched roof and when not being able to tear the nasty obstacles that stood in his way to shreds had placed his stormy hands on the roof hole or blown fiercely into it forcing the fire to flicker and filing the room with smoke.  
All night the wind demons had tried to frighten the inhabitants of the little farm and wee Marcus, Mark for short had been glad for once that his five older sisters were curled up in the furs beside him. However the howling raving wind scared the hell out of him and only when his sister Sheilagh wrapped her warm arm around him comforting him the wee boy and sole surviving heir of the family finally found rest and shut his sleepy eyes.  
  
At the break of dawn the angry wind gave up his howling and rattling and subsided to the Northeast. It was still dark when his mother poked him on his shoulder to wake him. The room felt cold and he shivered when poking his toe out into the brisk morning air.  
“Come on, Markie, it’s time.” The mother said and turned away.  
Oh, he only knew too well what time it was.  
Time to leave a steaming streak on the frozen ground behind the house. Time to gnaw some of the coarse heated oats they called porridge.  
Time to drive the ewes and lambs up the hill. That time it was.  
  
Wee Markie didn’t mind his daily chores much. He had done them since he had learnt to walk. What else could one do during the course of the day?  
On the contrary, he prided himself with the fact that ever since he had taken up watch over the family’s flock of sheep not one animal had come to harm.  
He was a good shepherd. True the shepherd’s staff towered high over him still but he had learnt to manage it with quite some skill over the last four years.  
In the pitch black he walked over to the pen driving his animals outs. The way up the hill he knew by heart, could do it blindfolded. Also he knew exactly where they had been grazing the day before. Today they would move a little further, each day a bit. Green pastures, his dad called it.  
  
His dad would be working in the smithy today, repairing what the wind demons had damaged over night and making the farm ready for winter.  
His mother and sisters would see to similar tasks, like foraging and preparing for the turning in the weather.  
Standing on his hill Mark could see the morning slowly crawling out of her bed of clouds, emerging from the fluffy duvet with her golden hair first.  
Throwing off the dark beddings of the night until the skies reflected her golden hair and ruby lips.  
His tummy started to rumble. His mum would be angry if he ruined his appetite. However a handful of turnips couldn’t go wrong.  
He turned around to get his bag that held his food parcel when he noticed something from the corner of his eyes. He turned back and froze.  
  
There was a line of bushes and trees forming a light forest which hid the coastline from his father’s farm. There in the top of one tree was a strange movement. He had to squint his eyes against the rising sun that was biting his eyes making them water.  
Yes, there in the tree was something strange, unfamiliar. Something that didn’t belong. Something red and white with a black shape in the white.[](http://j-flattermann.livejournal.com/pics/catalog/952/843840)  
He squinted his eyes even further before he realized what it was he had before his eyes. Leaving his bag, the sheep, his responsibility behind he started to ran as fast as his short legs would carry him down the hill. Halfway down he stumbled, fell, rolled, tumbled all the way down until he reached the bottom of the hill. However there was no time to tend to bruises and cuts. Jumping to his naked feet he picked up running again. As soon as he came into earshot of the smithy he began to yell at the top of his lunges.  
“DAD! DAD! DAD!”  
His father’s greying head appeared in the doorframe.  
“Son?!” His eyes full of worry. If his little boy abandoned his duty it must be serious.  
“What is it, son?”  
Mark spilled it out all at once.  
“Dad, there’s a dragon ship at the shore. I’ve seen the flag. Red, white with a black raven in it.”  
His father cursed, walked over to the smithy and started to ring the bell in alarm.  
Quickly the yard filled with all hands working on the farm.  
“Mark, you go and tell your ma.” His father ordered him and then he heard how Redstan was told to take the hamlets only horse to ride to the Alderman to inform King Ælla that heathen invaders had landed.  
Mark still stood as Redstan sped out of the farmyard on horseback. He saw his father staring at him and turned around starting to run over to the house as his father’s voice bellowed over the ground instructing the men to pick up their weapons and gather back in front of the smithy.  
  
Utterly out of breath Mark reached the farmhouse but neither his mother nor his sisters were there. He had to run around the house and search them in the fields ahead.  
When he reached his mother he was out of breath and it took him a couple of minutes to gain enough breath to speak.  
His mother gathered the daughters and her youngest, her only son and rushing back to the farm barricaded herself inside. Of course she wanted to confine him too inside as she still deemed him too young to be involved into combat which certainly would have to ensue. However wee Mark climbed out of the back window, slid down the wall and vanished in the bushes that framed the farm yard. He only turned once to make sure that he hadn’t been seen before making his way through the shrubs into the forest and down to the coast where he had spied the foreign ship from his hilltop view earlier.  
  
  


1  Name is taken from the name of the war flag shown by his sons Hingvar and Hubbe when waging war on the English to avenge their father’s death in 866 leading the “Great Heathen Army”.

  
  
tbc


	2. Vikings landing

  
  
**Tormented Souls [Chapter 3] - “Hrafnsmerki”1 Longboat of Ragnar Lodbrok - Nov 865 (Part 2)**  
  
  
Pairing: Sean Bean as Mark Behan/Viggo Mortensen as Viggo Mårtenssona  
Genre: Slash  
Rating: NC-17 for violence  
Word Count: 1,334  
Disclaimer: Pure Fiction.  
A/N: Some of the details referred to in this story are taken from the Ragnarssona þáttr. However the author does not guarantee the authenticity of the historic facts.  
  
  
  
  
 _Northumbria Anno 865 AD  
The beach and the small strip of forest by the coast._    
  
  
The men were putting their weight into the oars but against the raging winds and the whipping waves they stood no chance. ‘Lille Viggo’ as his father lovingly called him had been tucked away in the rump of the long boat and his father Mårten had tied him up severely to make sure his little boy wasn’t washed out to sea.  
The long boat a drekar had room for 30 men rowing and another 50 warriors to fight. Each room in the boat was used as they were just on their way back from a very successful campaign in France, heading for their winter camp on the Isle of Shepney when the fury of the storm had thrown them off course.  
  
Viggo was watching the backs of the men as they moved rhythmically, sweated through the shirts and muscled against the onslaught of nature.  
Their leader was standing at the helm staring out into the blackness shouting commands back at Mårten who was in the stern handling the rudder. However no matter how much strength the men at the oars put into the battle against the elements they couldn’t help when a huge wave picked them up like a box of matches and flung them on land breaking the “Hrafnsmerki” in two.  
Viggo was knocked about but alive. To him is seemed as if the great sea snake had licked them with her salty tongue swallowed them to devour the tasty and the undesirable she had spat out onto the shore.  
  
The crash had pushed the air out of the boy’s lungs and it took him a while to figure out what was going on around him. His fingers were too clam to untie himself. The rope knotted too tight to slip out. His teeth were clattering a staccato like the castanets of a Spanish Flamenco dancer.  
He must have fallen asleep with exhaustion just from trying to breath without inhaling the water of the waves breaking over his head spilling into the boat. Now the water was gone and the part of the boat he was tied to had filled with sand instead.  
He woke with a startle as he was spoken to. The voice scratchy, coarse from to much salt. It wasn’t his father’s voice or face but instead a broad face framed in flames. Ragnar “the Red” Lodbrok, their leader, stared down at him. The man who claimed to have been fathered by Odin himself, at least that was what Viggo had heard.  
  
“Lille én, har du det godt?  _Little one, are you all right?_ ” Lille Viggo swallowed not to cry and nodded. Where was his dad? Had the great sea snake eaten him?  
Ragnar Ladbrok was fumbling with the knot that held the little boy prisoner to the remands of what once a mighty drekar.  
“Må ikke vrikke, sidde stille!  _Don’t wiggle, sit still!_ ” The red haired leader of the Vikings demanded and lille Viggo staring at him with wide eyes as grey as the sky above him held his breath.  
He knew these men. They were violent. Anger easily ignited.  
The only safety a child could hope for amongst the community of his fellowmen was with their own kin.  
‘Never show them that you are afraid.’ His father had told him often. ‘Be strong always. Don’t show any weaknesses.’ Father had compared his kind with a rut of wolves. Dangerous at all times, killing their own if they were deemed too weak. It was the call of nature these men and also the women followed. Survival of the fittest, strongest, cleverest.  
The lands they called their home had shaped their way of life.  
  
The strong fingers, callused, scarred over and over from handling sword, axe and even oars at times finally managed to break the grip of the soaked rope which now fell down to Viggo’s feet coiling up like a sleeping snake.  
Two strong hands took hold of lille Viggo right under his armpits and two likewise strong arms lifted him up in the air. The boy couldn’t help himself. The grip under his armpits tickled and so lifted up in the air suspended between beach and sky he started to giggle.  
A smile broke through the stern face of the red haired giant and the man joined in the laugh as he tossed Viggo in the air, catching him on his way down in his strong arms.  
“Du er gjort af det rette stof, lillebroer.  _You are made of the right stuff, little brother._ ” The man said and finally planted the boy’s feet firmly in the sand of the beach.  
Viggo stared at the giant who still smiled at him.  
“Hvor er min faderen?  _Where is my father?_ ” He dared to ask. The giant shrugged.  
“Det ved jeg ikke. Vi sætter lejr derovre, lillebror. Vi har brug for brand træ. Når jeg ser din far jeg fortælle ham, at jeg har set dig, og sende dig til træ. Når du har det indsamlede kommer tilbage til lejren. Lille en, ikke vove sig for langt væk.  _I don't know. We are putting up camp over there, little brother. We need fire wood. When I see your father I tell him I've seen you and send you for wood. When you have it collected come back to the camp. Little one, don't venture too far off._ ” The leader of the Vikings said to him, gave him a slap on the shoulder and walked away in the direction he ad pointed out where the camp was going to be.  
‘Never show them if you feel afraid.’ His father’s voice rang out in his head. Viggo sighed.  
Gathering all the courage he could muster he walked off in the different direction and vanished into the undergrowth of the strip of forest.  
  
He had to strain his eyes as in the woodland strip with it’s dense bushes the just returning light of the morning sun would not penetrate. He knew he couldn’t return until he had a proper armful of firewood. He only wished his mind wouldn’t constantly jumping forwards and backwards over what might have happened to his father.  
Shaking his head, he told himself off. “Stop at være sådan en tøsedreng.  _Stop being such a sissy._ ” Concentrating on his task at hand and soon had an armful of branches and twigs to take back to camp.  
Returning to the place the giant had pointed out to him he stopped for a minute in astonishment. The men had set up some makeshift shelters and a fireplace had been created with a ring of stones to mark the place. Walking towards the hearth he dropped his collection off when somebody called out his name.  
He turned around and came face to face with his father, who praised him and asked him to get some more wood.  
  
Lighter at heart and with a confident smile on his face lille Viggo left the camp again to forage some more just as his father had asked him to do.  
  
As the morning had further progressed the sun higher up in the sky the light penetrated deeper into the foliage and helped him to find his way. With his father’s praise still ringing in his ears he was determent to do even better than before.  
Therefore he ventured further away against the leader’s advice. He came across a proper log fallen in the storm of the night before. However it was too heavy for him to lift or even drag but he was able to break a large branch. Dragging the big branch behind him he was on his way back to camp.  
He was close to camp when he stumbled and almost fell. He thought he had stumbled over two pale roots. Only when he turned and looked down the two roots suddenly seemed to move and before he knew it he was staring into the face of a boy.  
  
  
  
1 Name is taken from the name of the war flag shown by his sons Hingvar and Hubbe when waging war on the English to avenge their father’s death in 866 leading the “Great Heathen Army”.  
  
tbc


	3. RAID

  
  
**Tormented Souls [Chapter 3] - “Hrafnsmerki”1 Longboat of Ragnar Lodbrok - Nov 865 (Part 3)**  
  
  
Pairing: Sean Bean as Mark Behan/Viggo Mortensen as Viggo Mårtenssona  
Genre: Slash  
Rating: NC-17 for violence  
Word Count: 1,409  
Disclaimer: Pure Fiction.  
A/N: Some of the details referred to in this story are taken from the Ragnarssona þáttr. However the author does not guarantee the authenticity of the historic facts.  
  
  
  
  
 _Northumbria Anno 865 AD_  
The beach and the small strip of forest by the coast near a Saxon hamlet.  
  
  
Terrified the two boys stood before each other not quite sure what to do next. Both were of the same hight and almost same age.  
The young Viking was slimmer, his long hair of a soft hazel brown colour from his temple the hair was braided so it wouldn’t fall into his face. His grey eyes staring wide at the boy opposite with his short fair flaxen hair. The boy lille Viggo was looking at was stockier in build. Just like lille Viggo the other boy sported a dagger in his belt. However their clothes were utterly different. The blond boy was wearing woven woollen trousers and a knitted tunic with a braided pattern under a vest made from sheepskin. His feet were naked. Around his neck a strange wooden emblem on a leather string.  
  
Viggo was wearing buckskin britches made watertight with rendered fat. The shirt he wore was made of woven wool very finely spun and dyed in bright colours made into beautiful patterns. On top of the shirt was a buckskin jacket again polished with fat to keep it soft and watertight. His feet were covered in boots made of sheepskin held to the leg by small straps of leather tied around the leg. The feet of the boots were also scraped clean and oiled only from ankle upwards the wool was left on. On his head Viggo wore a leather helmet made from so many layers of leather that it was a thick as a wooden board.  
  
A ray of sunshine fell through the canvas of leaves lighting up the Saxon boy’s blond hair and face, hitting his eyes which began to sparkle in the brightest golden green.  
Lille Viggo hand on the hilt of his dagger forgot to draw. Never before had he seen eyes of such colour. They reminded him of the colour of the leaves of the birches in spring when touched by Baldr. The birch trees which formed the forests around his ancestral home across the Vesterhavet [North Sea].  
While the boys were staring at each other not sure what to do, they were startled by loud noises, shouts coming from the Viking’s camp.  
Both boys turned towards the sound and started to run towards the source of the noise. The young Vikingr leaving the large branch behind, completely forgetting that he had been ordered to collect firewood. The Saxon seemed to ignore the fact that he was in for a pretty good thrashing if his father found him out. Still both boys stumbled on side by side occasionally bumping into each other as they rushed on.  
Just as they hit a clearing created by the Vikings when building their camp the two boys stopped abruptly.  
The clearing was filled with men fighting.  
  
The boys jaws dropped and they stood stupefied, watching on as the men before their eyes clashed.  
Swords, battle axes and spears met with scythes, wood axes, boar pikes and branch saws. Mark’s father was the only one of the Saxons who owned and wore a body armour and proper weapons. The rest of the Saxons sported all kinds of equipment that could be used as a defensive and attacking weapon.  
The Vikings on the other hand were all well equipped as they had just returned from a raid in France. Their weapons and body-armours were in good shape. The men trained fighters not farm-labourers like the Saxons. The only advantage the Saxons had was the fact that they were well rested in contrast to the “Denes” who not only had rowed all night but also against a boiling sea whipped up by a furious storm.  
  
The two boys stood shoulder to shoulder watching mortified as both parties started to shout and running towards each other clashed in mortal combat.  
Despite being rested the Saxons soon had to give ground as they were outnumbered and easily overwhelmed by the raging Vikings.  
Still the clash of the two sides was nonetheless forcefully brutal and the field soon was littered with severed limps, blood and gore flying through the air, dropping of weapons and painted the soaking grounds and fighting parties likewise in blood red. Axes for wood or battle cracked open skulls, smashed joints, split open flesh. Scythes, branch saws and swords amputated limps, got entangled or stuck in soft tissue, crushing bones. Spears and pikes pierced torsos. Screams of the wounded and dying filled the air as did the smell of blood and feces, making both boys gag and forced them to press their hands before their noses and mouths.  
  
With horror Mark and Viggo could only helplessly watch on as both their fathers went down. One spilling his guts, the other losing half of his brain to a brutal blow.  
Tears filled the boys eyes, desperately blinked away. Fists stuffed in their mouths not to wail in pain. They found themselves clasping their hands for shared comfort.  
When it seemed like the Vikings were gaining ground, winning the fight, Viggo wanted to dart forward into the field to gather the corpse of his father. However as he started to move he was held back by Mark who grabbed his arm and as Viggo turned towards him trying to wiggle himself free the blond Saxon boy shook his head. Lifting his thumb up to his throat he moved it quickly from right to left, signalling Viggo that he would die if he was to step into the clearing. The grab on Viggo’s arm intensified as Mark made it clear that Viggo should stay.  
The fight was far from over but Mark had no signs to tell this foreign boy that King Ælla of Northumbria was on his way with his soldiers. That this Vikings would see their certain end. So he just clung to the boy’s arm, desperately shaking his head, hoping the boy would give up his idea of storming onto the battle field.  
  
Lille Viggo stared back at the blond preparing to shake him off when the ground under his feet suddenly started to vibrate. This could only mean horses. His eyes nearly popped out of his head as his gaze wandered between the Saxon boy at his side and the men out in the clearing. The leader of the Vikingr, Ragnar Lodbrok gathered what men he had left to regroup and stand their grounds.  
Viggo wanted to shout a word of warning but no sound would emerge from his dry mouth. All he could do was to stand and stare as the remaining Vikings were mowed down and their leader taken prisoner.  
It took Viggo some time to realise that he was tugged by his sleeve. Time seemed to have come to a stand still or at least move in slow motion. Finally he noticed, saw the other boy’s hand moving, signalling him to follow.  
His legs had lost feeling, seemed wobbly and he was amazed that he could move them at all, to fall in with the Saxon boy who pulled him away.  
  
As the forest fell away the two boys stumbled across soldiers. Mark and Viggo were still holding hands. The boys stopped short. There was some kind of heat filling their bodies, starting from their midriff.  
Mark looked at his new found friend and smiled.  
“Come. Let’s go.” He said.  
Strangely Viggo understood every word.  
“But where to?” He asked and Mark replied as if he too understood.  
However Viggo was absolutely sure that he had spoken in his own language. How could that be?  
“Home.” Mark had answered smiling and pointed in the direction of a set of buildings which were still smouldering as their walls slowly crumbled to the ground.  
Viggo reached for the outstretched hand and his heart felt light and warm. As he stepped forward grabbing Mark’s hand the two boys started to run.  
Viggo wondered that no one of the soldiers tried to stop them despite him being dressed in his Viking clothes and easily identifiable as belonging to the enemy.  
  
The boys ran downhill hand in hand laughing out loud as they crossed the meadow with it’s flowers and butterflies and bees.  
They didn’t turn around to see the officer slapping one of the soldiers in the face. Or the two soldiers pulling out the pikes of the small bodies and loading them onto a horse.  
  
  
1 Name is taken from the name of the war flag shown by his sons Hingvar and Hubbe when waging war on the English to avenge their father’s death in 866 leading the “Great Heathen Army”.  
  
The End


End file.
